The Fisher King is Going Bald
Hair is meant to grow long and unruly
Who am I to interfere with nature’s treaty with time?
A king’s crown a tangled mess,
so fashion forward of I to sport
the look of a fishing net
Yet I still prefer function, you see
I have salmon-like thoughts, those
zombified fiends stubbornly swim upstream
Keep coasting, keep coasting
Solutions are rarely abundant
However I have heard that
water makes an excellent solvent.
I may stay stationary, waiting
as my wounded body aches,
I worry not, for my head will go
wherever my healer takes
Perhaps then, he will raise my head tall
And my follicles will no longer fall.
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